LYRA
The petals didn’t seem right.
They were acting foolishly.
I looked down at the arrangement of flowers placed in front of me in the ballroom, like offerings to a god—and I hated every single one of them.
Every one of it irks my soul.
“I asked for ivory with golden tips,” my voice low but firm. “This is beige,” I said, trying to stay calm. “It’s not what I asked for.” The frustration bled through sharper than I meant, but I couldn’t help it.
Why can’t they take simple instructions.
The florist bowed her head deeply, with her hands trembling. “My lady, we tried using the golden dye, but it didn’t work”.
“Then try again,” I cut in, my voice sharp and unbothered. “And this time, don’t fail.” I didn’t raise my voice, I didn’t need to. She could tell, I was already frustrated and an
